


With Practice

by xylodemon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Get up," Robb says, his voice thin but firm, steady despite the terrible silence and the panic rising in the back of his throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://datalenkoass.livejournal.com/profile)[**datalenkoass**](http://datalenkoass.livejournal.com/) and [](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**got_exchange**](http://got_exchange.livejournal.com/), Round Eight.

It is a cold afternoon, the sun little more than a dull blur against the colorless sky. It hasn't snowed properly in nearly a fortnight, but frost clings to the windows and the mossy stones around the well, and Robb stamps his feet as he watches Theon spar with Jon, chilled now that he is no longer moving himself, shivering in his own sweat as his breath takes shape in front of his face. His earlier bout with Theon left him with a slow ache on the back of his wrist, caused by the flat of Theon's blade; the pain is faint and he likely won't bruise, but he finds himself flexing his fingers and turning his hand, testing how far he can bend it before his sore muscles start to complain.

The sharp sound of practice swords kissing cracks through the yard, and Robb returns his attention to the match, where Jon is slowly securing the upper hand. Theon is skilled enough, but in a functional way, a way that plainly states that swords are not his weapon of choice; he relies too heavily on his speed, his slight build making him quicker than either Jon or Robb, and he dodges many of Jon's blows rather than defending, hesitations that allow Jon to quietly gain ground. The maids and potboys gathered on the bridge murmur as Jon suddenly leans in to press his advantage, his footwork solid as he drives Theon back into the squat shadows cast by the armory. Theon's next swing arcs wide, his elbow flying up in a way that makes Ser Rodrik call out in dismay, and Jon darts in, his blade catching the curve of Theon's neck.

"Enough," Ser Rodrik grumbles. A gust of wind slices the word in half, sharp enough to shave with; he frowns up at the sky, which has begun to darken in the last few minutes, then gives the signal for the students to stow their weapons for the day.

Theon heads for the armory, smiling at the serving maids with his practice sword tucked under his arm. Robb stays in the yard, his own sword hanging awkwardly from his belt, rubbing idly at his wrist until Jon comes over and kicks at his foot, a reminder that his toes tend to point inward when he isn't paying attention.

"I see Greyjoy got in a good one."

Robb snorts out a laugh. "He got lucky."

"Lucky you're as slow as an aurochs."

"You're the aurochs."

"Fat Tom, then."

"Ass." Robb elbows Jon in the side, for all the good it will do against his padded leather jerkin, but Jon grunts under his breath, if only to humor him, then smiles in a way that makes a queer knot twist in his belly, tugging at something he can't quite name.

The yard is quiet now that the crowd has finally thinned, the stillness broken by the thrum of ordinary sounds -- the anvil singing in the smithy, a cart squeaking past the East Gate, a group hands talking as they make their way to the stables. Another gust of wind cuts between the buildings, swift and edged like a knife, and Jon blows on his hands, his breath steaming before his nose like that of a horse. Robb can smell him this close, sweat and leather and the oatmeal soap Vayon Poole purchases from a local goodwife rather than sending for the strong, expensive scents of King's Landing or Dorne.

He shuffles closer to Jon, elbowing him in the side again. "Do you want to go another round?" The king's party is due to arrive at the end of the sennight, and his mother has a list of tasks she wishes had been done yesterday if not the day before, but another few minutes won't hurt anything.

"Always," Jon replies.

They take their places in the center of the yard, circling each other slowly, Robb watching Jon's posture for any sign of attack -- the set of his arms, the line of his shoulders, the angle of his knees, the tilt of his hips. Theon likes to needle his opponents, for all that his sword can't always cover his boasts, and Robb knows from his father's men that taunts and threats are common to both tourney melees and battlefields, but Jon is as silent as the crypts, his head cocked to one side, his mouth pinched at the corners as he studies Robb as carefully as Robb is studying him. He is possibly the best of all three of them, his form and footwork precisely what Ser Rodrik recommends, but Robb wins nearly half their bouts, and he knows that Jon lacks for patience, will eventually goad himself into brash action simply to have an end to things.

"I don't remember asking you to dance." Robb hefts his sword, edging back as Jon inches closer. "What are you waiting for?"

"For you to fall on your ass."

Robb almost does just that, his heel turning on a stone poking up through the dirt, and he curses himself when he realizes Jon has been nudging him toward it, herding him like cattle. He swings his sword in front of his body as he regains his balance, several wide and artless strokes that would make Ser Rodrik huff with frustration, and Jon lunges in once, twice, but cannot make contact. He is taller than Robb, narrower across the shoulders and slightly thinner, though not as thin as Theon, and he isn't any quicker for it the way Theon is. His sword cuts up to Robb's hip, but Robb leans back and bats it away with a grunt. 

"Who is slower than Fat Tom now?"

Jon laughs and leans in again, aiming a jabbing thrust at Robb's shoulder. Robb counters it easily, the clack of their swords rattling in his ears, then backtracks, spins, and swings at Jon's side, a sweeping cut that misses by half a pace.

"Closer," Jon says, his mouth twitching and his voice as dry as dust. "You should ask Maester Luwin if you can borrow his reading lenses."

"You should ask the merchants if they need help driving their oxen. You swing that thing like a cudgel."

Robb lunges in, moving closer to Jon than Ser Rodrik advises, swinging up as Jon hedges back, his sword catching Jon's side and sliding up the line of Jon's ribs. It isn't enough to end their match, as they usually spar until one of them falls or lands a blow that would be deadly with live steel, the neck or the belly or the inside of the thigh, but Jon's startled, displeased grunt is a satisfying sound. Jon is the best of the three of them because he practices the most, visiting the yard when Theon is wenching and Robb is attending their father, often staying until the bells ring for supper, and Robb knows he prides himself on his skill, one of the small handful of things he can call his own.

Jon turns suddenly, spinning on his heel as he sidles away from the bridge, where Robb had hope to pin him against a support, muttering as he swiftly circles around and crowds in against Robb's hip. His practice sword sweeps up, ready to be laid across Robb's throat; his breath fans over the back of Robb's neck, stirring Robb's hair, and a new knot of warmth writhes to life in his belly, gooseflesh pulling at his skin as his heart hammers in his chest.

"Yield?" Jon asks quietly.

Robb takes a slow, deep breath, then ducks out of Jon's grasp, knocking his hip against Jon's to make space before he crouches and darts away. He nearly sprawls in the dirt, overbalanced by the weight of his sword and the sharp bend of his knees; when he finds his feet again, Jon is advancing, his sword angled across his body and his mouth set in a grim line. He takes a slicing swing that Robb parries at the last moment, then cuts down the other direction, almost clipping Robb's leg. Robb dances out of Jon's reach, giving ground in the hope that he can lunge in on Jon's next push, but Jon's mouth curves with a sly smile as Robb's back hits the armory wall. 

Jon presses in until Robb has nowhere to go, his free hand at Robb's hip and his sword crossing Robb's body like a bastard's bar on a coat of arms. They study each other in silence for a moment, Jon breathing hard from exertion, a deep flush stretching up from his collar to redden his cheeks and the line of his jaw, Robb digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, hoping to ease the heat itching under his skin, to stave the thrumming ache between his legs. His cock his half hard and dangerously close to Jon's hip.

"Cheater." Jon says.

Robb forces out a laugh, but it catches in the back of his throat, feels thin against his tongue. "You wish. I escaped fairly."

Jon opens his mouth, then closes it with a huff. Snow is falling in the yard, softly, tiny flakes that dance with the wind and melt the moment they catch in Jon's hair, and Robb studies Jon's face, watching as his grey eyes narrow, as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. The urge to kiss him is a living thing inside Robb's chest, hot and twisting as it burrows into the space beneath his ribs. His sword is waiting uselessly at his side; he tightens his fingers around the grip, then jerks his hand up, rapping the pommel against Jon's wrist. Jon's sword clatters to the ground, bouncing off Robb's thigh before it lands in the dirt, and Robb slides away from the armory wall, ready to swoop in when Jon stoops to retrieve it.

The wind whistles as it gusts between the armory and the guard's hall, scattering the snow into anxious flurries and drawing Robb's hair across his face. Before he can brush it away, Jon barrels into him at a run, grunting as he drags both of them to the ground. Robb lands flat on his back, a sharp pain humming in his elbow as it glances off a stone, and Jon ends up sprawled on top of him, his bent knee wedged between Robb's legs and his hands on Robb's shoulders. It's a pointless wrestling match, any scratches and pinches made blunt by the weight of their jerkins; Robb rolls them over once, hooking one foot around Jon's leg and using the other for leverage, but Jon promptly rolls them again, scrambling up as they settle until he's straddling Robb's hips, his body pulling taut as Robb's cock nudges the inside of his thigh.

"Get up," Robb says, his voice thin but firm, steady despite the terrible silence and the panic rising in the back of his throat.

Jon nods before heaving himself to his feet; his face is carefully blank, showing no anger, no disgust, no anything. Robb avoids Jon's eyes as he stands and dusts the dirt from his breeches, as he gathers his practice sword where he'd dropped it when Jon knocked him down, hurrying toward the armory before Jon has a chance to speak. The door opens with a groan, an aggrieved reminder that the armory is nearly as old as the Great Keep, and the air inside is dusty and damp, cold enough that Robb shivers, the sudden chill stabbing into his bones. He doesn't hear Jon come in behind him, doesn't realize Jon is there at all until he feels Jon's hand at the small of his back.

"I thought it was just me."

The admission drops between them like a catapult stone; Robb chokes out a noise, a rough mixture of surprise and relief, and his hands shake, useless as he tries to fumble his practice sword into the rack. Jon presses a little closer, curling his fingers into the hem of Robb's jerkin. The anvil is still singing in the smithy, and there are children outside the armory, laughing as they run down the alley that separates it from the Guest Hall. Robb turns in the narrow space between Jon's body and the rack of swords, and Jon's hand slips around to his waist, squeezing softly. Jon has their father's face, and that alone should stop this madness before it starts, but Jon's mouth is slightly parted and his cock is hard against Robb's hip.

Their first kiss is clumsy, too fast and too much tongue, their noses bumping and Robb's teeth catching the well of Jon's lip, but Robb has never done this before, and he doubts that Jon has either. Jon's hand slides up the curve of Robb's shoulder, curling briefly at the side of his neck before brushing up to cradle Robb's jaw. He crowds Robb back against the rack of swords, making a low, desperate noise into Robb's mouth when Robb pulls him closer, clutching at Jon's arms and rubbing his cock against Jon's hip. Robb shifts a little, twisting until their cocks are riding together, gasping at the perfect curl of sensation, friction and pressure and the slow heat of Jon's mouth.

They kiss until Robb's jaw aches, until Jon is breathless, his mouth open and wet against the slope of Robb's cheek. Robb wishes they were somewhere else -- his bedchambers, or Jon's, or even the godswood -- somewhere he could take off Jon's jerkin, unlace the placket of Jon's breeches, wrap his hand around Jon's cock. He wants to touch Jon so badly he can taste it in the back of his throat, but he doesn't dare risk it here, not when anyone could walk in on them, not when they're already jumping at every noise in the yard, at every raised voice and creaky cart. If someone entered the armory now Robb doubts they could pass this off as some kind of fight; Robb's hair is a rough mess from Jon's hands and Jon has a bright red mark just below his ear. 

Jon moans quietly, the sound huffed out against the corner of Robb's jaw, his hand palming Robb's hip before sliding around to curve over Robb's arse. He hitches Robb closer, his fingers digging into Robb's skin hard enough to bruise, and Robb spends in a sudden, frenetic rush, his hot face hidden against Jon's neck as the heat coiling in his gut suddenly pulls tight and snaps. Jon keeps moving against him, his eyes closed and his lip caught between his teeth; Robb reaches down between them, pressing the heel of his hand over the hard line of Jon's cock, rubbing until Jon shudders against him, his back arching and his hand twisted in the laces of Robb's doublet.

The bells ring to announce the midday meal -- once, twice, thrice. Jon takes a step back, glancing at the armory door as he pushes a hand through his hair, and Robb straightens his breeches, wincing at the sticky mess inside. The silence is heavy; everything smells of sweat and leather and sex.

"Maester Luwin believes it will snow tonight," Jon says finally.

Robb hesitates, unsure of what to say until he sees the corner of Jon's mouth twitch. "The castle gets cold when it snows. We should probably share tonight."

"We should."

"Yours or mine?"

"Yours," Jon says, with a sideways smile. "Your bed is bigger."


End file.
